|Jan/Feb 2001 Poetry|
Scribbles from 52nd and LaVouge
I knew this girl who lived
in a theater. I slept with her
sometimes. She had a dog, two
cats, a bird, and a turtle. The dog
liked me. Me and this girl, or should
I say, this girl and me became
lovers. She fed the turtle fish.
It had been a long time since I cared
for anybody. I never slept in a theater before.
Sometimes at night I could hear
the theater talk; it echoed of a time
of which I had no idea. This girl had
hair the color of faded fire
engines, skin whiter than Crayola could
make, and eyes the color of weeping
angels on rainy Sunday mornings.
I used to whisper to this girl when she slept.
One of the cats was an attention slut.
The other cat was indifferent.
Whenever I had a chance I would stand
on the edge of a tall building look down
and think about eating cotton candy in June.
It was confusing time then.
I was twenty-seven.
I wrote on walls.
I wrote poetry like this, and I knew this girl
who lived in a theater. I slept there with her sometimes.